Toronto, Taiwan, and Home

I sometimes contemplate the serendipitous relationship between a person and a place. The marriage of the living and the inanimate, with the inanimate cheating the living by influencing it more than something inanimate ever should. In opining these places, I think of James Joyce’s Dublin, Charles Dickens’ London, and Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul.

The place I think about tonight is a small island in the South China sea, an island which emerges from the haunting waves of a vast ocean, and entrenches itself not only against the wrath of the natural world, but also against the might of far more powerful and undemocratic neighbors, including China, which insists on territorial sovereignty over the island. Taiwan is officially recognized by very few nations in the world, and yet through an unbreakable spirit and an indomitable will, the 23 million people of Taiwan have transformed it into one of the world’s foremost economies, and more importantly, into a vibrant and restless Asian democracy.

I can remember, in Taiwan, being mesmerized by the chaotic energy of the night markets, the crowded streets which buzzed with commerce and creativity, and the endless stream of scooters, cars, trucks, bicycles and humans that together made up the fabric of a nation.

I can also remember the food, sold seemingly everywhere, not just in restaurants, but from stands all along the streets. Chicken fried rice, deep fried shrimp, but also more unusual items, such as chicken feet, pig ear and blood, stinky tofu, and so many other things I couldn’t recognize. The thought occurred to me that, “while in Rome, I should do as the Romans do.” After all, it can be a deeply enriching experience to sample foods from other countries and cultures.

However, there is a grace, serenity and peace about that which is familiar. And for a young Canadian in a far flung land, the familiar could hardly be epitomized more profoundly than by McDonalds. It wasn’t that I thought that a pig’s ear or a chicken’s foot would taste like a piece of shit, but rather that I knew exactly what fries and a crispy chicken sandwich at McDonald’s would taste like. And sure enough, it tasted just like I thought it would. It tasted like home.

The places we visit touch us, haunt us, and sometimes change us. But at the end of the day, it is the place we come from that touches, haunts and changes us the most.

And so while Dublin is written on James Joyce’s heart, Toronto is written on mine. A city bequeathed with the restless minds of young idealists and artists, like tender flowers pushing forth on barren rocks. A city whose neighborhoods are as different and diverse as the flora and fauna of Madagascar.

But regardless of the superlatives, it is a great city simply because it is home.